The Virgin and His Majesty. Robyn Donald
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He’d imprinted her the way a mother goose imprinted her goslings.
The thought curved her mouth in an involuntary smile. How apt. She was behaving just like a goose!
Gerd broke a silence that threatened to drag on too long. ‘How long is it since we’ve danced together?’
‘I don’t know.’
That was a stupid response, an instinctive attempt at defence. And he’d noticed. Defiantly Rosie cocked her head and met his unusual eyes, tawny and arrogant as an eagle’s.
Hoping her tone projected amusement tinged with nostalgia, she continued, ‘Oh, yes, of course I do. How could I forget? It was my first grown-up party, do you remember? You were on holiday in New Zealand that summer.’
‘I remember.’ His voice was lazy, as amused as hers, the dark lashes almost hiding his eyes.
‘You gave me my very first grown-up kisses,’ she told him, and laughed before adding, ‘Ones that set an impossibly high standard.’
If she’d thought to startle him, she failed.
‘There have been plenty to judge them by since then, I understand,’ he said austerely.
Disconcerted, she demanded, ‘How do you know that?’
Again he shrugged, the muscles flexing beneath her fingertips. ‘Information travels fast in this family of ours,’ he told her laconically.
Rosie pointed out, ‘Except that I’m not proper family. The only connection is that my father’s first wife was your cousin. A fairly distant cousin at that. So I’m actually flying false colours. Everyone seems to think I’m a Crysander-Gillan, instead of a very ordinary Matthews!’
‘Nonsense,’ he said negligently, adding with an oblique smile, ‘There’s nothing ordinary about you. Anyway, your half-brother is my blood relation as well as a good friend, and Alex would very properly have told me where to go if you hadn’t been invited.’
Of course she’d been aware that only Gerd’s ironbound sense of duty had led to this invitation, but his laconic acknowledgement of it stung nevertheless.
Stifling her hurt, Rosie switched her gaze to the half brother she’d never really known. Her parents’ marriage had disintegrated before she was old enough to realise that the boy who appeared occasionally in her life was actually related to her.
Gerd’s arm around her tightened; Alex forgotten, she followed the almost imperceptible command and matched her steps to her partner’s. A sensuous thrill ran through her as they pivoted, their bodies meeting for an intimate moment.
Heat flamed through her at that subtle pressure; she dragged in a painful breath, only to find it imbued with the potent aphrodisiac of Gerd’s faint body scent—pure, charged masculinity. She was becoming aroused, readying herself for a passion that would never be returned, never be appeased.
And then Gerd drew back and she felt the distance between them like a chasm.
Determined to break the sense of connection, the feverish hunger, she said bleakly, ‘You know Alex better than I do. My mother banished him to boarding school before I was born, and we rarely saw him.’
‘He told me you’re having difficulty finding a job.’
Startled, she lifted her head, parrying his coolly questioning survey. ‘For someone on the opposite side of the world from New Zealand you certainly keep your finger on the pulse,’ she said forthrightly. ‘Yes, the downturn in business has meant that inexperienced commerce graduates are in over-supply, but I’ll find something.’
‘Surely Alex could fit you into his organisation?’
‘Any position I get will be on my own merits,’ she told him abruptly.
‘I’m flattered you allowed him to pay your way here. He said he had to almost force you to accept the offer.’
Her brother had dropped in on her the day she got the invitation, and when she’d told him she couldn’t afford to go, he’d lifted one black brow and drawled, ‘Consider it your next Christmas present.’
She’d laughed and refused, but a few days later his secretary had rung to ask if she had a passport, and given her instructions to meet his private jet at Auckland’s airport. And her mother had applied pressure, no doubt hoping that a holiday among the rich and famous would make Rosie reconsider her next move—to find a job in a florist’s shop.
‘You might just as well be a hairdresser,’ Eva Matthews had wailed. ‘It was bad enough when you decided to take a commerce degree, but to turn yourself into a florist?’ She’d startled Rosie with her virulence. ‘Why, for heaven’s sake? Everyone says you’re clever as a cartload of monkeys, but you’ve done nothing—nothing at all!—with your brains. You were a constant disappointment to your father—what would he have thought of this latest hare-brained scheme?’
Rosie had shrugged. Starting with the fact that she’d been born the wrong sex, she’d never been able to please her parents.
‘This is something I want to do,’ she said firmly.
Her years at an expensive, exclusive boarding school had been for her mother. University had been for her father, although he’d made his disapproval clear when she’d chosen a commerce degree instead of something more academically challenging that would befit the daughter of a famed archaeologist.
Neither of her parents had known that she’d always planned to work with flowers. The degree had been her first step, and during her holidays she’d worked in a good florist’s shop, honing her skills and a natural talent for design. A few months before the end of the university year the shop had closed down, a casualty of the recession, and, with the financial world on the brink of panic, now was not the time to set up. Even if she’d had the capital, which she didn’t.
Rosie had discussed her situation with Kelt. He’d advised finding a job, saving like crazy and waiting for an upturn in the situation.
Good advice. Her expression unconsciously wistful, she turned her head and watched him dance with Hani. They looked so perfect together…
Just as Gerd and the Princess Serina had looked—a matching pair.
‘They are very happy together,’ Gerd said, an abrasive note in his words startling her.
‘Oh, yes, so happy. But who wouldn’t be, married to Kelt?’
Kelt didn’t write her off as a lightweight or treat her as though she had the common sense of a meringue. A growing girl couldn’t have had a better substitute brother, but his marriage to Hani had taken something from the special relationship he and Rosie shared; he had other loyalties, other responsibilities now.
Rosie had expected it to happen and she didn’t resent it, but she missed their closeness.
Gerd asked laconically, ‘So what is your plan?’
‘Oh, take a look around, see what I can find,’ she said airily. ‘And what are your plans, now that you and the country have emerged from the year of mourning? What changes are you going to make in Carathia?’
‘Only a few, and those slowly. I didn’t realise you were interested in my country.’
She met his eyes with a swift, dazzling smile. ‘Of course I am. Being related to the ruler of Carathia gave me immense prestige at school. I used to boast about it incessantly.’
He held her away from him, examining her face. Bracing herself as a flame of awareness sizzled through her, Rosie met that intent eagle-amber gaze with cool challenge.
The grimness faded from his expression, although his smile was narrow as a blade. ‘I don’t believe that for a moment. Why did you decide to become an accountant?’
She wasn’t going to tell him about her love affair with flowers. ‘It just seemed a sensible